


Queen's Gambit

by nishizono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had to be a reason for everything; a motive; an explanation he could wrap around a series of events and then tie it up with logic. But there had been no explanation for Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen's Gambit

Sherlock could never leave well enough alone. There had to be a reason for everything; a motive; an explanation he could wrap around a series of events and then tie it up with logic. But there'd been no explanation for Moriarty.

He'd slipped through London like a quick match fuse, leaving his imprint on everything he touched until the moment he'd met Sherlock. That had been the spark; that had been the friction he'd needed to set the city on fire, to send the flames racing through the streets until the whole of England nearly collapsed at his feet.

He'd almost destroyed a country without trying, and that hadn't even been his goal. All he'd ever wanted was to win.

 

 

 

Broadmoor Hospital was a boxy, red brick building situated an hour and a half west of London. It was one of three psychiatric facilities in Her Majesty's Prison Service, and home to such notorious criminals as the Yorkshire Ripper and the Exeter Bomber.

Its most recent guest was Richard Brook, alias Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock hadn't believed for a moment that Moriarty had actually committed suicide, but he'd been running out of time, so he'd been forced to leave the “body” behind. Two years later, after his own return from the dead, he'd noticed a familiar pattern in the crimes around London, and his suspicions had been confirmed: Rich Brook was officially dead, but Jim Moriarty was still very much alive, and he wanted Sherlock's attention.

Moriarty's arrest had gone so smoothly it was disappointing, and that was why Sherlock couldn't stay away.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Is it Sunday again already?” Moriarty singsonged as Sherlock walked into the visitor's room of the hospital. They were separated by bulletproof glass, and Moriarty's chair had been welded to the floor. His wrists and ankles were shackled, and the cuffs were connected to the floor with steel cables.

“Good afternoon.” Sherlock greeted Moriarty in a businesslike tone. He swept the hem of his coat aside and sat. “Your pupils are less dilated than they were last month. They've lowered your dosage.”

It was almost insulting to see Moriarty chained up like a common criminal. And he was a criminal, of course, but he was also The Criminal. The most brilliant who'd ever lived. He was wasted in a place like Broadmoor, half-starved and drugged out of his mind.

Moriarty graced him with a slow, creeping smile. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“You were just as manic on the sedatives as you were without, but they caused hallucinations and violent outbursts. You're also becoming vitamin D deficient. I'll speak to your counsel about increasing your time in the yard.”

“Hah!” Moriarty laughed and jerked against the shackles on his wrists. “Sherlock, you're a _dor_ able. If only we had some privacy, I should like to spoil you.” He licked his lips and leaned closer, his voice cracking. “Maybe I'll spoil you when I get out of here.”

He'd been screaming. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. He'd been screaming in his cell, and probably smiling while he did it. His eyes were bright from the giddy excitement of knowing the guards were afraid of him.

“You're serving a life sentence,” Sherlock replied. “I'm merely doing my part to ensure that your sentence lasts for as long as possible.”

Moriarty smirked and leaned back in his chair. “John doesn't know you're here, and you're not planning to tell him,” he said, letting his gaze wander down to Sherlock's throat. “Am I your dirty little secret, Sherlock?”

“I told you never to say his name.”

“It's not like you to avoid a question, lover. Is it because I mentioned John? Should I be jealous?”

Sherlock suppressed a flare of anger. “I'm sure I needn't remind you that I'm your only visitor, and even if I wasn't, I'm the only one who matters.”

“Ouch, that's quite a nerve I've hit.” Moriarty chuckled and leaned back, letting his legs fall open in a sprawl. He put his hands on his upper thighs and smirked. “No more teasing. I promise.”

Sherlock flicked a glance at Moriarty's hands, then steepled his fingers against his lips. He regarded Moriarty silently for a moment, then said, “Pawn to E-4.”

 

 

 

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

It wasn't a new problem, but it was one for which he'd never found a suitable remedy. Antidepressants would have evened him out, but they would have also slowed his mind, and that would have been unacceptable. So he'd suffer through the insomnia until he hit the low point of his cycle, and then he'd catch up on the sleep he'd missed.

In the meantime, he wrote letters to Moriarty.

 

 

 

“I've been getting all your love letters,” Moriarty cooed the next time Sherlock went to visit. There was stubble on his cheeks, but his eyes were clear. “Really, Sherlock, you should have been a journalist. Your review of the Sydney neurology symposium was thoroughly engaging.”

“They'll revoke your visitation rights if you keep attacking guards,” Sherlock replied. He'd read the incident report. The laceration on the guard's arm hadn't been deep, but an attack was an attack, and it had landed Moriarty in solitary for two weeks.

Moriarty grinned and jerked at the cables around his wrists. “You don't like the rugged look? I'd chop wood and fetch water from the well for you. Not everything can be Chanel.”

“Tell me why you came back.”

Moriarty made a 'tsk'ing noise and sat back in his chair. A moment passed. And then another.

“Tell me,” Sherlock said, “why you came back.”

Moriarty tipped his head to the side and smiled. “What do you think it felt like for John, when he saw that mannequin on the sidewalk? It was a mannequin, wasn't it? Before you had your doggie run over so you could make yourself bloody and take the mannequin's place?”

Sherlock shoved his chair back and stood, then headed for the door. When Moriarty called, “Pawn to D-5,” he didn't look back.

 

 

 

In March, Moriarty was treated for five broken ribs. He refused to tell his doctors how he'd got them.

 

 

 

“Really, Sherlock, I was shocked you didn't check me for a pulse,” Moriarty said, studying the blueprints Sherlock had taped to the window.

Sherlock kept his fingers steepled against his lips. “I didn't need to.”

“Of course not, Sherlock. You're delightful.”

“I-O-U. Iodine, Oxygen, Uranium.”

“Good,” Moriarty crooned, still looking at the blueprints.

“Atomic numbers 53, 8, and 92. They're references to fairy tales in the book you left for me.”

“Oh, _very_ good.” Moriarty grinned at him, then nodded to the blueprints. “If the diamonds were still in the building, they'd be in the second floor bathroom.”

“Very good,” Sherlock replied, taking the blueprints down. He took a photocopy of a newspaper clipping out of his bag and taped it up. “Kidnapping, 1975. The girl was last seen at a music festival in Cardiff.”

“Oh Sherlock, I've seen this episode already.”

“Indulge me.”

“This game is only interesting to the people who want to solve the puzzles, not the ones who'd rather make them.” Moriarty stuck his tongue out and smiled. “Now, I've played your game. Let's play mine. Quid pro quo, Clarice.”

“Snow White, The Strange Violinist, and The King of Golden Mountain,” Sherlock said quietly. “The king would never let himself fall so easily, and he'd certainly never throw himself off the mountain.”

Moriarty let out a bark of laughter and rattled his shackles. He leaned forward in his chair and grinned at Sherlock through the glass. “You _are_ the fairest of them all, angel. Truly.”

 

 

 

In April, Moriarty was treated for a fractured skull. The guards had let him bash his head against the wall for an hour before the finally went in to stop him.

 

 

 

The linoleum in the visitation room was different, and Moriarty was late. Sherlock stared at the floor and made uncharacteristic leaps of logic to try and connect the two facts.

Moriarty was shuffled in fifteen minutes later, held upright between two guards. His pupils were dilated, and his chin was crusted with dried spit. Lifting his head was obviously a struggle, and he regarded Sherlock with only a flicker of recognition.

Sherlock counted to ten.

The guards dropped Moriarty in his chair. His eyelids drooped. His chin fell to his chest.

“Do you know what day it is, Jim?” Sherlock asked.

Moriarty lifted his head and blinked.

“The day of the week. What day is it?”

“There are,” Moriarty slurred, “two hundred and six bones in the adult human body. That means I've got two hundred ways left to count the ways I love you.”

Sherlock flicked his hand at the guards to indicate that they should take Moriarty away. He didn't watch them go; he counted the seams in the linoleum.

 

 

 

Everyone but Sherlock was surprised when Moriarty went missing from the prison hospital. He'd even managed to clean out his cell. The only thing he'd left behind was a chess piece: the black king with 'XOXO' etched into the base.

  
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